


A peccato meo munda me [Blot out my transgressions]

by kurokkii (stupidqpid)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Middle Ages, Monks, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-17
Updated: 2009-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidqpid/pseuds/kurokkii
Summary: Middle Ages: Patrick is a young monk,Pete helps out in the monastery
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz





	A peccato meo munda me [Blot out my transgressions]

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry for historical nonsense and mistakes even if i looked for informations; some secundary characters are slightly inspired by Umberto Eco's book "The name of the rose".
> 
> The latin at the beginning means:  
>  Have mercy on me, O God,  
>  according to your unfailing love;  
>  according to your great compassion  
>  blot out my transgressions. (Psalm 51)
> 
> *****
> 
> [i'm simply archiving my works - typos,mistakes,shitty contents etc. included]

_Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.  
Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquiatatem meam.  
Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea:  
et a peccato meo munda me…_  
  
A serious line of monks is concentrated on their morning prays, making their way to the church to sing their lauds before breakfast.  
Young Patrick has always lived in the monastery since he’s been abandoned by his mother in front of the main entrance; he’s fifteen now, he’s been raised by the monks and knows every latin verse of the Bible, every prayers, every rule of the order, every hidden place of the monastery.  
But he still isn’t used to all of this.  
He’s always the last to wake up, but only because one of the brethren beats him awake.  
He’s always too sleepy to remember the prayers right. But it happens also during the rest of the day more often than not.  
He’s often caught in the cloister singing by himself, or writing, or just wasting his time instead of doing his chores. But this distraction is too strong for him to fight it.  
  
\---  
  
His Father Superior has always taught him that Bible says sodomy is a sin, it’s an act against Nature and God Creator. It took Patrick five lessons and a good dose of bravery to ask his teacher what exactly sodomy is; he almost regretted asking when the old monk got angry and cursed those men that lay with each other, those men that like other men, continuing his furious ramblings in front of an ashamed and uncomfortable Patrick.  
That lesson, for how traumatic it had been, explained young Patrick many things of himself, though he couldn’t help but being worried of what his teacher would do to him if he discovered it: after that lesson, in fact, Patrick was almost sure to be one of those sinner that like other men.  
He spent insomniac nights and working days, with the result of being scolded for being too slow, thinking about it: he remembers how curious he was when he saw his other brethren half or totally naked, even though the youngest there was already thirty years old and kinda fat and definitely not good looking.  
  
\---  
  
Patrick doesn’t feel bad at all, excluding the fear that the Father Superior got into his nerves since that memorable lesson, looking at a young man of the village that helps in the monastery. He looks around his twenties, a bit taller than Patrick but still tiny, black hair and darkish skin for working under the burning sun, muscular and tonic but still skinny because food is never enough in Middle Ages. He works for the monastery, getting the food produced by the monks to the village and bringing whatever the monks need that they can’t make by themselves.  
Our young Patrick catches himself staring at this guy with a dreamy expression every time he sees him enter the main door of the monastery, talking to the monks, taking orders, delivering and collecting goods, bending down to pick up something (Patrick always feels a funny sensation in his lower stomach at that).  
It’s how he ended writing poems and songs in the first place, instead of working; he already sang, it’s always been his best ability and favorite activity, but writing something new, something about love for another person instead of God, something with a rhythm different from the Gregorian chants of the chorus, makes him happier despite the more frequent punishments he gets from his superiors.  
  
\---  
  
Patrick hopes not to become a pervert like monk Eylgar.  
What distresses Patrick the most is catching monk Eylgar looking at him –he can swear he saw him, no matter how hard he tried to forget and convince himself of the contrary.  
Monk Eylgar is a huge, huge and bald man with a feminine voice; he heard the other monks referring to this brethren as the castrated, or the ox, making fun of him and his “habits”. The most recurrent gossip was how he contravened the rule of chastity simply touching himself or even paying some of the boys of the village relying on the monastery to “help him out”.  
Two questions haunt Patrick, together with the bad feeling of being watched by “the ox”: how can he disobey the chastity rule, being he castrated? And why has he never been caught and punished for that? He’s never dared to ask, but whereas for the first question he doesn’t have any answer, for the second he heard other monks gossiping -yeah, it’s totally their favorite activity, definitely not praying- about the ox’ chance of never being processed for sodomy because he’s an influential member of– God, Patrick never remembers the name of those organizations. Maybe they were referring to the Inquisition, and that would explain many things.  
But back to his impression of catching monk Eylgar lurking to look at him, and sometimes blatantly staring at him when changing his robe, Patrick hopes badly not to become a pervert like him.  
There’s a reason if he’s worried about that: it’s a week straight that he dreams of the dark haired boy of the village, the one that inspires his songs, the one that makes him feel weird but also a bit happy. And it’s a week straight that he wakes up with a throbbing erected penis: he doesn’t know how long he will be able to hide it, and most of all to hide his blush whenever he gets some friction “down there”, mixing up relief and pleasure.  
Patrick’s going to explode soon.  
  
  
Pete doesn’t give a damn of religion and monks and Popes and Gods. He’s been forced by his father to deal every other week with the monks, to help both the village and the monastery . Most of all he can’t stand the monks: in his opinion, they all think they’re better than common people because of their contact with God and some other bullshit. They always treat him with arrogance whenever he goes at the monastery to deliver stuff made by the people of the village; he also hates their avarice when they have to give him the food and the medicines for the village, every week the quantity decrease vaguely but he notices, oh yes, he notices, but to prevent a major drama he shuts up. And they also pretend that poor people like Pete and his family offer some money to secure a place in heaven! Lies! It’s just for them, to live in luxury! Where is the Christian charity? Didn’t God or Jesus tell everybody has to help the neighbor and live in poverty?  
  
\---  
  
Pete sighs for the whole trip from the village to the monastery, he’s always sighed and he’ll keep sighing until he’ll finally be free to ditch religion.  
With his oxcart he arrives at the main door of the monastery, and after a nod at the guard monk he can get in, (not) ready to face the ruby nose and round stomach of monk Julian, the pantry attendant; luckily for him the monk is not there yet, for once, so he can try to work on his patience and not risk to bite the other’s head off at the first word he says.  
Waiting for the drunk monk to arrive, Pete looks around, ignoring the boring gray stones and brown wood of the entrance, paying more attention to the arches of the porch and to the nice garden of the cloister. There’s only a tiny monk between the plants, bended down to take care of some plants, a basket a few feet away, giving his back to Pete.  
Pete is going to look somewhere else when he notices the little monk turn and head to the basket to put whatever he just picked. It’s the apparition of an angel that wants to try to convince Pete to believe in God again, there’s no other explanation. The guy stares in awe at the features of the petite monk, he wants to seal them in his memory with fire, from the reddish hair to the cherry lips to the pale skin.  
“There’re only two crates of zucchini, a barrel of olives and three generic medicines available, I’m sorry,” the monotone (and not sorry) voice of monk Julian informs Pete, startling him; the guy was so focused on absorbing every particular of the young monk in the garden, that he didn’t even think of some harsh comment about Julian’s avarice.  
The round monk leaves without another word, letting Pete load the oxcart without any help; his eyes wander more often than not to the little monk, who’s still busy taking care of the plants.  
Once he’s done, Pete doesn’t want to leave the monastery yet, he needs to know at least the monk’s name.  
‘Now or never,’ he thinks, before heading to the cloister. Approaching the monk, Pete can faintly hear a soft tune, some music possibly muttered by the monk himself.  
“Erm…Excuse me, Father?”  
The young monk looks up with his clear eyes, not singing anymore: Pete notices he’s blushing madly, but he himself is a close call.  
“I-I’m not a Father, I’m a simple novice…” the monk stutters embarrassed.  
“Oh…ehm, well, I…I just wanted to know if there’s something I can help you with?” the tanned guy asks tentatively, “I-I already prepared the cart and…I was wondering if there’s more stuff to take to the village or…if you need something…” he adds, fidgeting with his worn out hat.  
“N-No, it’s okay, thank you…” the short monk says, looking everywhere but Pete.  
“Okay…ehm…have a good day, err…what’s your name?” the brunette asks shyly.  
“Patrick,” the other replies in a tiny voice.  
“Have a good day, Patrick. Praise the Lord,” the guy says, cringing a bit at what he just said and turning to leave the monastery.  
Pete returns fast to the oxcart, embarrassed at extreme levels, muttering “oh my God” like a mantra.  
“Hey,” somebody shouts, “what’s your name?”  
The brunette is already sitting on the oxcart, harness in his hands; he turns and sees the young monk looking at him, holding his rake nervously. He replies, “Pete,” before waving goodbye and heading back to the village.  
The main door just closed behind Pete’s back, so he can’t see monk Michael pop out of nowhere, hit Patrick’s head and look at him angrily, scolding the poor boy, “Why are you shouting? Work in silence!”  
“Sorry, Father…” Patrick replies instinctively, fighting the urge to rub the hurting spot on his head.  
  
\---  
  
Pete and Patrick don’t know it, but they dream of each other that night and for the following nights, the first in the crowded bedroom of his house, the second in his solitary cell.  
On one hand there’s Pete, who has become a professional of getting off in silence: he doesn’t want that his siblings or parents wake up and punish him for sinning. Nobody has ever made him feel that way: sure, it happened that cute girls and boys stimulated his fantasy and he ended aiming for relief in his lower region, but he’s pretty confident to have fallen for Patrick at the first sight.  
Patrick, on the other hand, has always lived secluded in the monastery, surrounded by older brethrens; the Masses were the only chance for him to see other people, but he had to pay attention and pray and sing, and once they were over he had to return in the boring monastery, back to his repetitive activities. He was literally shocked when he became aware of how that unknown guy of the village who delivered and collected goods made him feel, it almost scared him to notice how his body reacted, and not being able to get some relief was almost painful.  
  
\---  
  
A week passes. Pete doesn’t want to admit it, but for the first time he’s waiting impatiently to enter the heavy wooden main door of the monastery; on the other side of the walls Patrick can’t wait to see the familiar oxcart and the dark haired guy in the driver’s seat.  
The heavy door opens. Patrick is casually in the garden right when Pete hops off the cart to deliver supplies.  
They spend weeks stealing glances and smiling shyly at each other.  
  
  
A bright voice fills the air: Patrick is once again in the garden, singing while waiting for Pete to arrive. He finds himself blushing thinking back of earlier that morning, when he woke up from the umpteenth dream with the villager and, for the first time, he touched himself. The marks of his own teeth on the left hand are still visible where he bit himself, after he had to shove a hand in the mouth to avoid screaming as the pleasure grew while he pumped himself, at first hesitantly but then more greedily; he rolled his eyes when he came in violent spurts, sighing heavily at the pleasant feeling.  
The noise of hooves against stone snaps Patrick out of state, announcing him the coming of the familiar oxcart: Pete is indeed getting off the cart, pretending to pay attention to the pantry attendant monk.  
Once the two are done, and Pete has put a series of barrels and boxes on the cart, the brunette walks to the young monk with a shy smile but bright eyes, both reciprocated by Patrick.  
Pete looks around and leans closer to the slightly shorter boy, whispering in his ear, “Meet me at the church in half an hour.”  
Patrick looks at him leaving, flushing madly for the closeness. For a second he thought Pete was going to kiss him: the young monk has to mentally slap himself for such a sinning thought, the words of his Father Superior still haunting him.  
…He has to force himself from running at the church already, he can’t wait for these thirty minutes to pass, he wants to know what’s that meeting for.  
  
\---  
  
After wasting some time in the garden, Patrick heads to the church, hoping not to look too suspicious with his hurried pace and pinker face. Not knowing if waiting for Pete in or outside the church, he hides behind a tree, but he doesn’t have to wait for too long because the tanned guy arrives shortly after, looking like he just ran, glancing around with a nervous look on his face that turns way more relieved once he spots the tiny monk.  
“Hi…thanks for coming,” Pete says timidly, scratching his head.  
“Don’t mention it,” Patrick replies, not looking directly at the other guy.  
They stand in front of each other for a while, in silence, blushing every time they catch the glances they give each other.  
Pete decides to break the silence. Taking all his courage, he asks Patrick to follow him up the bell tower, flushing to the top of his ears, imitated by the monk; Patrick nods his agreement and they walk around the church, to reach the secondary entrance of the tower. It’s a long climb on a narrow spiral staircase, but eventually the guys arrive at the top of the tower, enjoying the fresh air and the landscape.  
It takes a while for Pete to awkwardly put an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, looking straight in front of him to avoid eye contact with the boy. Patrick tenses under the touch, and turns his head quickly to look at the brunette, who does his best to look nonchalant but with no success. The little monk leans in the one armed hug, embarrassed, lingering his head on Pete’s chest: they have matching flushed faces and fast pounding hearts.  
Pete is shaking with want, but he’s hold back by the awkwardness of the situation. He wants to tell Patrick that he fell in love with him, he wants to kiss those attractive lips, he simply wants to love the younger guy, uncaring of the fact that it’s a sin and that Patrick is a monk.  
He doesn’t even know what possessed him, but Pete finds himself kissing Patrick, who freezes at the contact and widens his eyes impossibly huge, moaning his surprise. Their bodies react immediately; Patrick can’t help but kiss back and both guys pull their bodies closer together, stimulating each other even more. They separate breathlessly and flustered, unable to take their hands off the other, their looks filled with longing.  
Pete leans closer once again, quickly pecking Patrick’s lips, and pushes him at the corner of the bell tower. They help each other undressing, untying and unbuttoning whatever gets in the way of the contact of skin against skin. Soft kisses soon become hungry and ardent, needy and frantic.  
The boys sit on the floor, separated from the cold stone only by the thin fabrics of their clothes, Patrick leaning against the wall and Pete grinding on top of him. The villager is memorizing every noise and facial expression of the little monk, finding his cheeks red for embarrassment extremely adorable, losing himself in those glimmering green eyes and in that musical voice; underneath him, Patrick can’t take his eyes off Pete, mesmerized by that smile that always makes him melt, fascinated by the whole person of Pete and by his freedom outside the monastery.  
It’s the beginning of the end: the sexual tension between the two of them is intense and crackles stronger and stronger whenever their gazes meet in the monastery, to finally explode during their secret meetings on top of the bell tower; the ghost of the fear of getting caught creeps heavy over them.  
Arms around necks, a leg hooked around a waist, stolen kisses and greedy make out sessions, hands on hips; licks and bites and fingers, strokes and grindings, caresses and penetrations, soft pale skin against firm tanned skin, sweaty. Their thrusts are erratic, desperate, passionate, their moans are broken and ravenous, their eyes are dark and rapt by each other, their bodies are sensitive and overwhelmed by waves of pleasure.  
They can’t do nothing when a nosy monk suddenly shows followed by guards and other monks, after spying the guys and reporting their transgressive encounters, catching Pete and Patrick in the act of sinning.  
It’s no use hoping not to be scourged, if not killed, for being two male lovers in an obtuse society.  
  
  
“You’ve been judged guilty of sodomy: the punishment is the Pear of Anguish for the monk and the Judas Cradle for the villager,” the judge declares, gesturing the torturers to lead the culprit to the chambers.  
The trial has just taken place, but Pete and Patrick’s fate was already doomed, they didn’t have too many hopes to be left free. Also, they were caught sinning.  
“Oh, no, the Pear no! Spare us, I beg you!” Patrick pleads, fat tears running down his flushed cheeks, “Leave me, leave me, oh God!” Patrick cries out, jerking in an hopeless attempt to free himself from the grip of his soon-to-be torturers.  
“Patrick! Leave him alone, you bastards!” Pete shouts with fury, fighting his way to help Patrick and run away, but he’s held as well by other people, both guys forced to go in the chambers and face their destiny. They fight, as much as they can, to free themselves, but the two guys are surrounded by guards and their run would be immediately foiled.  
A couple of torturers are preparing the necessary: there’s a table in the middle of the room, with some chains scattered at its feet; a bulk torturer checks if the pear-shaped instrument works, if the petals separates without any problem, while the second torturer pushes a rather tall stool, with a pyramid at the top, in front of the table.  
Patrick is dragged in the chamber first and bodily put on the table, securing a posture on all fours with the chains; Pete is in a corner, blocked by some guards and forced to look at the futile attempts of Patrick to escape from his jailers.  
The torturer tears Patrick’s robe off and the poor guy starts sobbing uncontrollably, begging forgiveness and grace, praying for his and Pete’s safety.  
“I heard the younger one liked to take it up the ass,” an ugly monk, who looks like a sick rat, snickers, whispering in another monk’s ear but loud enough for Pete to hear it.  
“You sick insensible fucker!” the tanned guy screams, trying to throw himself at the tactless and gossipy monk; Pete wants to kill him with his own bare hands, but he can’t undo the ropes around his wrists and the guards are holding him back. Patrick looks at him, crying incessantly, mouthing a ‘Love you’ before shuddering when the torturer gently moves his legs more apart.  
Surprisingly carefully, but it’s just to make the victim feel the evil thing enter inside his body, the torturer inserts the pointed tip of the still closed pear. It’s uncomfortable but quite bearable at the moment, Patrick thinks in a short moment of hope and relief; he doesn’t want to imagine the incredible pain he’ll have to suffer because of that damned tool. He’s totally defenseless, tied at the table and with that thing in the bottom he can only cry silently, closing his eyes not to see the others’ expression at the show they’re going to witness soon, but above all he doesn’t want to see Pete’s torn look: that would be a torture enough.  
Giving Patrick some time to get used to it, the torturer stares at Pete somewhat hungrily, sadistically looking forward for the guy’s reaction at the little monk’s pained screams.  
The second torturer leads the dark haired guy to the pyramid. After undressing the young man, the torturer fastens his victim with tight ropes crossing his chest and waist, and ties very close together the guy’s ankles with another rope; securing the long parts of the ropes to nails on the walls, he puts Pete up the pyramid , making sure that the top of the pyramid is inserted in his victim’s anus.  
Pete winces at the invasive and sharp top of the pyramid. He can’t sit more comfortably, it’s physically impossible; he tries tightening every muscle of the legs, but it soon tires him, being him on the little top of the pyramid with his whole body in an unbalanced position. He has to be strong for Patrick and not to let those mischievous bastards have their way.  
“Patrick,” he whispers, turning his face to the boy with minimal movements not to increase his own pain, “Patrick, can you hear me?”  
The boy simply nods, with his eyes still closed and facing the table: he doesn’t want to look up at Pete on that evil stool.  
“I love you too,” Pete states, feeling the salty flavor of a tear that has reached the corner of his mouth. Patrick whimpers harder.  
“Let’s get it over with,” the vile gossipy monk of before hurries in a harsh tone.  
The torturer who placed Pete on the pyramid structure stands aside, while the bigger one steps closer to Patrick, takes the screw with a hand and the pear with the other and, at a gesture of the judge, he starts pushing the Pear of Anguish more in depth, turning the screw to slowly open the Pear, causing a fit of cry from Patrick’s side and the outraged shouts of Pete.  
Patrick tries to be strong, but the pain caused by the bottom of the pear, too big for a butt hole, is agonizing, the feeling of the skin tearing more apart to let the damned tool open inside is piercing; the young monk cries and shouts and screams all his unbearable pain and blinding hatred for his judges, accusing them of not understanding love, of being total hypocrites, of interpreting God’s will at their own liking. Pete cries with him and for him, screaming insults at the judges along with Patrick, trying to bear the torture stool he’s sitting on all at once.  
The red headed boy chokes on his own spit while screaming, ending in a fit of coughs before fainting for the pain and the shock.  
“Patrick! Patrick!” a crying and panicky Pete calls desperately for his young lover, fearing the worst.  
The judge nods to stop, before leaving the chamber. The torturer stops screwing the Pear: he was so close to tear skin and muscles all the way and mutilate his victim.  
Everybody exits the room, leaving a fainted Patrick chained on the table, bleeding from his larger anus, and a screaming Pete on top of the Cradle.  
  
\---  
  
It’s only the day after that the guys are freed from their torture devices, dirty, sweaty, dried blood and tears still on their bodies. Pete doesn’t even have the strength to fight the men that are taking him off the pyramid, he’s shouted too much for the past twenty hours; Patrick tries to shy away from the hands that are grabbing him to make him stand up, a choked scream stuck in his throat.  
The guys are dragged upstairs, an armful of tattered clothes that they wear quickly before exiting the building, the shame and the rage for how they’ve been treated visible in their red puffed eyes and hard stare. They’re manhandled, without too many ceremonies, out the wooden door.  
The tortures that affected their bottoms has left them limping, hopefully for not too long; Pete has to help Patrick walking, because the little monk is the one who suffered the most, the one who’s crying silently feeling mortified and betrayed by God. They slowly make it back to Pete’s house, packing the guy’s little owning and stealing his father’s oxcart.  
“What are we going to do now, Pete?” Patrick asks with a broken voice, sitting askew on the hard bench, looking at the young man with teary eyes.  
“Survive,” Pete replies, kissing softly the monk’s temple and inciting the ox, heading quickly out of the village and into an unsure future in a bigoted society.


End file.
